


When You're Having Fun

by Captain America (HisMightyShield)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisMightyShield/pseuds/Captain%20America
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim tries to convince Sebastian that going for a swim in the hotel pool is a good idea. Guess how he tries to convince him -- go on. Guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You're Having Fun

**Author's Note:**

> My friend is a pretty huge Jim/Sebastian shipper so I set out to write her a brief scene using some of the typical-Seb/Jim tropes.

Sebastian leaned back in his chair far enough to take the first two legs off the carpet, his foot resting on the vertical muntin of the floor to ceiling penthouse windows in front of him. The room faced Caesars Palace’s courtyard which boasted a large sapphire blue pool that rippled reflected light up the sandstone walls and imitation roman pillars that surrounded it. The sky above was cloudless, and all of it just made Moran happy that he was locked away in an air conditioned room and not out in the oppressive Vegas heat 

This wasn’t a city he liked. He felt, constantly, like the whole damn place was just trying to pull one over on him. Everything was artifical -- from the architecture to the women -- and it made him angry. He couldn’t put his finger on why exactly he hated the place so much, he certainly wasn’t one to boast about how cultured he was, Sebastian just didn’t like the way it made him feel. Being here in this box in the desert which was designed to take his money just added a thick layer of stress to everything he did. He felt exactly like he imagined the MGM lions must, behind their glass cage: bored, used and constantly fantasising about how fantastic it would be to rip the throat out of some high-rolling piece of shit who thought he was a God because he hadn’t lost his money yet. 

The card lock beeped and the door opened. Moran bent his knee and let the chair legs snap back to the floor. His hand slid out of habit to the gun that always rested in the holster at his side, even though he knew there was only one person who had a key. A person who didn’t mind all the artifice, someone who appreciated the art of playing a role better than anyone. As far as Sebastian was concerned, his boss could probably teach the whole city a thing or two about pulling one over on the unsuspecting. 

Jim walked in wearing the brightest pink flip flops Moran had ever seen. He was wrapped in two hotel towels, one around his waist and the other over his shoulders and held shut against the cold by a tight fist. In Jim’s other hand he held a large green plastic hurricane glass decorated with bits of fruit stuck all around the rim. He made a noise to express his displeasure at the fact the room was actually colder than the hallway and then opened his mouth to catch his straw and suck down some daiquiri. 

“I think.” Moriarty said, licking the taste of the coconut rum from his bottom lip, “that you’d enjoy it out there if you gave it a few minutes.”

Honestly, he didn’t give a damn whether Sebastian liked it outside or not. He was far more interested in putting his sniper on display, spread out on one of those reclining chairs, all oiled up and groomed like the stallion he was. Possessions weren’t worth having if the world didn’t covet them. He smiled, imagining how good Moran would look with the kind of tan his skin tone would let him pull off. Jim never had much luck with the sun, he just freckled or burned unless he took a bath in sunscreen before heading out. 

“And the pool is nice.” Moriarty continued, dragging his words out in a lazy, distracted way that spoke to just how lost in his little Moran-daydream he was. “You should come with me when I go back down.”

Sebastian turned his chair (one off of the small balcony that he’d dragged in) so he could face Jim. He didn’t say anything -- he knew better than to just say no -- so most of the time his disagreement was simply expressed by his silence. He was more than happy to stay in his hotel room, looking down on the pool. It was a vantage point he was used to and the rifle neatly set up about three feet from his chair suggested that it was a vantage point he’d be making use of before the end of their trip. 

Returning to his straw, Jim stared at Moran as he took another sip. The corners of his mouth beginning to fall the longer Sebastian went without answering him. He let go of his straw and chewed on the inside of his cheek, biting down a bit too hard before his face split into a grin once more. “Oh, come on...don’t be like that. It’s rude.”

The ex-soldier rolled his eyes. He got up from his chair and went to the window, leaning on the frame and looking down his nose at the pools below. There was a certain air of appraisal that made it rather obvious that the aquatic features of the Palace left him wanting. 

“Why don’t we just go to Italy?” Sebastian asked, squinting against the sun outside. 

“Because Italy doesn’t have fucking palm trees.” Jim retorted, with an agitated sneer. Still, Sebastian had just turned his back to him, and that wasn’t a move that could go unpunished. He crossed the floor, leaving a little bit of a puddle on the entrance tiles. The towel on his shoulders fell forgotten to the carpet and the one tucked around his waist followed suit after a few more steps, leaving him with nothing but his flashy purple and yellow swimming trunks, his glass and his sandals. Moriarty came up behind the taller man, snaking his hand over Seb’s shoulder to hand off the drink. 

The sniper took the cup off him without any further instruction to do so. He straightened, feeling Jim’s cold wrist on his shoulder; he was acutely aware of the proximity of the rest of Moriarty as well, practically being able to feel the dampness of his shorts. He shut his eyes as he felt the fingernails of Jim’s other hand scratch down his spine and then hook around his belt. He still didn’t say anything. 

Jim pressed his cheek into Sebastian’s shoulder, his face turned towards the rifle stand. He tsked and pressed his weight into Moran, going up onto his tops to force the man closer to the window. “You shouldn’t have that out unless you’re planning on using it. You’ll make me jealous -- we’re supposed to be on vacation, you know.”

Sort of. The man who had a date with one of Seb’s bullets wasn’t due to arrive for another two or three days. Jim wanted to head to Vegas early for some self-declared “me time” and Moran had been pulled along for the trip, as always. 

“Vacation?” Sebastian tilted his chin to look at the hand on his shoulder, watching as Jim creeped his fingers towards the chain of his dog tags and getting a very, very good idea about what was about to come next. He turned his blue eyes back to the window. “What does that mean?”

Moriarty grinned, sliding a hand around the circumference of Moran’s belt as he took a tighter grip on the chain around his neck. He stopped at Sebastian’s belt buckle and hooked a thumb and finger in, giving it a playful tug without undoing it. 

“It means.” Jim sang, pressing his hips against the back of Moran’s thigh. “Having fun.”

With those two words, Moriarty yanked the dog tags with the kind of force one might apply to a horse’s bridle when a sudden, important stop was called for. He smirked as any attempt made by Sebastian to protest was cut off along with his airflow. He dug his fingers into the belt clasp with a bit more force and pulled it open as Moran leaned back to try and relieve some of the pressure on his throat. 

 

The daiquiri dropped spilling diluted strawberry puree, ice and rum over the floor (and splashed up the side of Jim’s left leg). He put his hand back over his shoulder, trying to reach for the chain without any luck. It was four more seconds before Jim let go, and Moran knew they were seconds only because he counted them out in his head -- it felt far longer. Able to breath and curved forward, resting a hand on the window to let the cold air into his lungs. He was about to turn around and about to shove Jim away for a move like that, but before he could he realised where exactly Moriarty’s other hand was. 

“And if you’re not going to do it on your own.” Jim said, pulling Sebastian’s shirt from the front of his trousers and biting at the fabric over his back. “I’m going to have to make you.”

“Go ahead and try.” Sebastian retorted, his voice a little rougher than normal, throat still burning from the chain. He dipped his chin to his chest as he watched Jim undo the front of his trousers, watched and his boss slid his hand beneath the elastic and swallowed hard when Moriarty finally made contact. 

Sebastian put his hands against the window frame to brace himself as Jim reached around with his other hand to tug Moran’s pants down a little bit further. Seb imagined that no one could see what they were doing -- the outside sun was too bright for their penthouse to be any contest, but Sebastian liked that even more. Hiding in plain sight -- not the way Jim did it, really, with his personalities and personas -- just hiding where people ought to be able to see you. 

Moriarty worked him, leaning over to the left just a touch so he could catch Sebastian’s ghost of a reflection in the glass. Sebastian was, Jim knew, a lot more expressive about these things when he had his back towards Jim which was why the shorter man had taken the effort to seek out a reflection now. He liked watching Seb when the sniper thought he wasn’t. Seeing things that he knew he wasn’t supposed too. He tightened his grip and Moran’s hips hitched in response. 

“Fuck...” Sebastian managed, he could feel Jim pressed in against him. He still felt cold, the water on his skin chilled Moriarty so much that if it wasn’t for the rather obvious erection in the front of Jim’s swimming shorts, Moran might have thought he was just rubbing up against him for warmth. 

He didn’t have much time to focus on Jim’s proximity however. He felt his boss’s hand wrap itself around the chain again. Instead of a quick tug backwards, though, this time Moriarty took his time, dragging the chain down Moran’s back until the tags rested tight against his throat and then applying a slow even increase in pressure as he continued to stroke Sebastian off. 

And as the tags cut in tighter, the sensation of what Jim was doing elsewhere increased. Sebastian could feel the building pressure everywhere. His hips bucked into Moriarty’s hand, seeking the friction as the dog tags cut off the circulation. He felt the odd numb lightheadedness start in his forehead. It was a familiar feeling now and it only made him roll his hips forward with more determination. It didn’t take long for him to come, muscles tight and body just a little bit rigid. He felt Jim’s hand wipe off on the side of his trousers before the man let go of the chain so Seb could breathe properly again.

Jim’s hands wrapped around the other man’s waist and he hugged him tight, digging his chin into Seb’s spine to make him arch. He grinned and licked his lips before kissing the back of Moran’s shirt and stepping away. 

 

“Well, you’ve made a mess.” Jim scowled, smiling as he did so. “Best thing now would be getting you in the pool to wash up. Don’t you think?”

Sebastian grinned, hooking the corners of his shirt with this thumbs and pulling it up over his head before turning and tossing it towards Jim (who batted it to the floor in lieu of catching it. He really couldn’t protest against an argument that convincing, and he wasn’t about to. His gaze fell on Jim’s shorts and he wondered for just a moment if they were still that damp in front from Jim’s previous swim or if he’d been just as satisfied by their little tryst as he’d been. He decided not to bother asking and just shook his head with a smile. 

“I do think.” Sebastian said. “ All right, let’s go swimming.”


End file.
